* * *
The eight-year-old Felicia was standing in the kitchen, fists balled at her sides, face red, trembling with anger and disappointment.
“But mommy, I want to go! Everyone is going!” she whined.
Her mother stopped laying out the dishes on the dining table and exchanged a glance with her husband, who was seated, newspaper spread out before him. Her father turned to Felicia, voice strained with having to repeat himself for the umpteenth time.
“We can’t afford it. I know the other kids from school are going on the camping trip, but we don’t have enough money at the moment.”
Her mother joined in, eyes teary, whereas Felicia’s eyes were dry despite her hurt.
“You know Daddy doesn’t go to work these days. As soon as he has found another job, we will make up for it. You and Bernice and Daddy and me, we’ll go camping together, someplace much nicer than the school trip. Promise.”
The child stomped her foot.
“I don’t want to go with you. I want to go with my classmates.”
When her parents sighed in unison, she screwed up her little face in what looked like a cruel mask, heightened by the fierce red curls that stood up from her head, as though they were angry too.
“And anyway, don’t promise me anything. You never keep your promises. You’re a mean liar, and you don’t love me. That’s why you don’t let me go on the trip.”
Her mother dropped the last plate down onto the table with a loud bang. In a rush, she was at her side, grabbing her arm painfully hard and shaking her.
“What are you saying, you little devil? Are you calling your own mother a liar?”
The eight-year-old clearly looked frightened now, but stood her ground, trying to pry her arm loose.
“Yes. Liar, liar, liar!” she chanted.
The next instant, her mother slapped her cheek.
There was ringing silence in the kitchen.
Her father had half risen from his chair, and her mother looked stricken at her own behavior. She stumbled a few steps away and opened her mouth to say sorry.
Felicia, feeling something boiling over inside her, opened her mouth and screamed.
There was a hissing, snapping sound cutting through her wails, and after it heat everywhere.
The stove, which had already been switched off, had sprung to life with flames shooting upward to the ceiling.
She was staring at the fire, scream frozen in mid-throat. Fire flickered in her eyes and danced along her veins under her skin.
When she took a step toward the flames and screamed again, they shot higher. With a whooshing sound, they bridged an impossible distance and turned the curtains into a bright yellow blaze.
Playing with Fire (Book 1 of the FIRE Trilogy) Page 7
